It had been years since Chanel had sat through one of her mother’s preparation routines for a social function, but the sound of Beatrice’s voice giving instruction to the stylists resonated with old memories.
Memories were so much easier to deal with than the reality of the present. She was marrying a prince.
It was beyond surreal.
“Your fingers are like ice.” The manicurist frowned as she took Chanel’s hand out of the moisturizing soak. “Why did you say nothing? The water must be too cold.”
Beatrice was there in a second, testing the water with her own finger and giving Chanel a look filled with concern. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”
Chanel nodded.
Her mom did not look comforted. “The argan oil solution is warm enough, but the manicurist is right. Your hands feel like they’ve been wrapped around an icicle.”
Chanel shrugged.
“Mom, she’s marrying a prince. That’s not exactly Chanel’s dream job,” Laura said in that tone only a teenager could get just right. “She’s stressed out.”
“But he’s perfect for you.”
“You’ve barely seen us together. How would you know?” Chanel asked, with little inflection.
“You love him.”
Chanel nodded again. There was no point in denying the one thing that would prompt her to marry a man related to royalty.
“He adores you.”
Laura grinned at Chanel, her eyes filled with understanding. “I agree with Mom on that one, at least.”
“I think he does,” Chanel admitted. Demyan acted like a man very happy with his future.
Beatrice reached out and put her hand against Chanel’s temple, frowning at whatever she felt there. “You’re in shock.”
“Sheesh, Mom, way to state the obvious.” Laura didn’t roll her eyes, but it was close.
Beatrice frowned. “I do not appreciate your tone, young lady.”
“Well, you’re acting like Chanel should be all excited and happy when it’s probably taking everything in her not to run away. She’s a scientist, Mom, not a socialite.”
“I am well aware of my daughter’s chosen profession.” Beatrice was careful not to frown—that caused wrinkles—but her tone conveyed displeasure.
The interaction fascinated Chanel, who hadn’t realized her mother and Laura had anything less than the ideal mother-daughter relationship.
Beatrice looked at Chanel. “Do you need some orange juice to bring up your blood sugar?”
Chanel shook her head. “It just doesn’t feel real.”
“Believe it or not, I threw up twice before walking down the aisle to your father,” Beatrice offered with too much embarrassment for it not to be sincere.
Laura snorted. “You were preggers, Mom. It was probably morning sickness.”
“I was not morning sick. I was terrified. I nearly fainted when I was getting ready for my wedding to your father.”
Chanel couldn’t imagine her mother agitated to that level. “Really?”
“It’s a huge step, marriage. No matter how much you love the man you’re marrying.”
“I don’t know what the big deal is. If it doesn’t work out, they can get divorced,” Laura said with the blasé confidence of youth.
Their mother glared at her youngest daughter. “That is not the attitude women of this family take into marriage.”
“You and Chanel can get all stressed about it, but I’m not going to. If I get married at all. It all seems like a lot of bother over something that ends in divorce about fifty percent of the time. I think living together makes a lot more sense.”
Chanel almost laughed at the look of absolute horror crossing their mother’s features. She would have, if she could feel anything that deeply.
Right now the entire world around her was one level removed.
“Stop looking like that, Mom. You and Chanel take everything so seriously. I’m not like you.”
It was a total revelation to Chanel that Laura considered her like their mother.
“You’re more like us than you realize, young lady. Regardless, there will be no more talk of divorce on your sister’s wedding day.”
Chanel had never heard her mother use that particular tone with her golden-child sister.
And Laura listened, but her less-than-subdued expression implied she had heard it before and didn’t find it all that intimidating.
How much had Chanel missed about the world around her? She hadn’t realized Demyan was a corporate king, much less a real-life prince. She’d had no idea her mother still loved her father and she’d been sure Beatrice no longer loved her.
Chanel had been wrong on all counts.
It was a sobering and hopeful realization at the same time.
Nevertheless, she continued through the rest of her personal preparations for the wedding in the fog of shock that had plagued her since waking without Demyan in her bed.
As the makeup artist finished the final application of lip color, a knock sounded at the door.
“The driver is here. Are you both ready?” Beatrice asked, managing to the look the part of the mother of the bride for a prince, anyway.
Laura looked like a blond angel in her ice-blue Vera Wang maid-of-honor dress that was a perfect complement to Chanel’s vintage designer gown.
Chanel hoped her mother had worked some kind of magic and she looked her part, as well. She hadn’t looked in the mirror since the hair stylist had shown up.
“It’s not the driver,” Laura announced after opening the door. Then she dropped into a curtsy and Chanel’s throat constricted.
Had the king come to tell her he didn’t want Chanel marrying his quasi-adopted son? No, that was an irrational thought.
But…her thoughts stopped their spin out of control in the face of the majesty that was Queen Oxana in full regalia. The Queen of Volyarus swept into the room, making the huge chamber feel very small all of a sudden.
“Good morning, Chanel. Beatrice.” The queen gave Chanel’s mother a small incline of her head and then a smile to Laura. “Laura, you look lovely.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Laura replied with her irrepressible smile.
“And you, my dear,” the queen said as she focused her considerable attention on Chanel. “You look absolutely perfect. That’s an original by Coco Chanel herself, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“She was a brilliant and innovative designer who changed the face of female haute couture almost single-handedly. I find your choice to dress in one of her gowns singularly appropriate as I am sure you will be equally as impacting in your field.”
It was the first time anyone who mattered to Chanel emotionally had made such a claim. Bittersweet joy squeezed at her heart, even through the layer of numbness surrounding that organ. “Thank you.”
Oxana smiled. “You are very welcome.” She offered Chanel a medium-sized dark blue velvet box meant for jewelry. “I would be honored if you would wear this.”
Expecting pearls, or something of that nature, Chanel felt her heart beat in a rapid tattoo of shock at the sight of the diamond-encrusted tiara. It wasn’t anything as imposing as the crown presently resting on the queen’s perfectly coiffed hair, but it was worthy of a princess.
“I’m not… This is…” Chanel didn’t know what to say, so she closed her mouth on more empty words.
“Part of my own wedding outfit,” the queen finished for her. “It would please me to see it worn again.”
“Didn’t Prince Maksim’s wife wear it?” Laura asked, managing to verbalize at least one of the questions swirling through Chanel’s brain.
“King Fedir gave her his mother’s princess tiara. It was decided between us that mine would be reserved for the wife of our eldest.”
Chanel’s heart warmed to hear Demyan referred to as the eldest child of the king and queen.
Somehow, though the stylist had been unaware that a tiara would be added later, the updo she had designed f
or Chanel lent itself perfectly to the diamond-encrusted accessory.
Or so her mother told Chanel.
“Here, see for yourself,” Oxana insisted.